


Mycroft's Game

by FrancescaMonterone



Series: Mycroft's Law [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Family, Holmes Brothers, John hates Irene Adler, John is a Good Friend, Minor Character Death, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Pre-Slash If You Squint, Protective Mycroft, Sex-repulsed Sherlock, So does Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 21:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10049270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancescaMonterone/pseuds/FrancescaMonterone
Summary: "Sherlock..."But he turned away.This, this is why I do not want you to love. Love is the knife, thrust at you again and again. Pain and loss and suffering. You are better off without it."Merry Christmas, Mycroft."Mycroft hated Christmas. Other people spent Christmas with their family and loved ones, while Mycroft watched over Britain and the Commonwealth. It was little consolation that it was his watch and that of others like him keeping them safe and oblivious. "And a happy New Year."Sherlock walked away from him, and Mycroft did what he always did, what he did best - he went behind his brother's back to protect him.





	

Flying over the roofs of London towards Buckingham Palace, John came up with a maxim that summed up his life since he had moved in with Sherlock Holmes: _Expect the unexpected and deal with the fallout._ Though maybe after his experience with Moriarty, he should add _'and hope not to get killed in the process'_ .

He was shown into what could only be described as an audience chamber, since the amounts of gold, marble and expensive red carpet it contained forbade the use of such mundane terms as 'meeting room' or 'parlour'.  His gaze traveled from the carpeted floor upwards, took in the stack of dark cloth on the low table in passing, and finally settled onto a long-limbed creature wrapped in a bed sheet.

Expect the unexpected.

Such as: Sherlock Holmes, wrapped in a bed sheet, at Buckingham Palace.

John sent him a silent "What the hell...?!", but Sherlock merely shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the surreal setting. John walked towards him, taking in the room in passing. It was impressive, if a bit gaudy, and he had no idea what he was doing here.

He had to admit that the whole thing was ridiculously strange. Sherlock seemed to agree, and seeing him break out into giggles like that was rare enough to be noteworthy and to make John forget for a moment that whatever had brought him here was probably not a good thing. Especially not given Sherlock's state of undress.

After ascertaining that Sherlock seemed to be just as clueless as he was - and wasn't that nice for a change - John asked the obvious question. "Here to see the Queen?" It was meant to be a joke, but Mycroft rounding the corner at that very moment suddenly made it seem a lot less funny and a lot more plausible an explanation.

"Apparently yes," Sherlock replied drily and they broke out into giggles again, because... well, the look on Mycroft's face warranted giggles.

Mycroft was clearly not amused. "Just once," he said, exasperation dripping like viscous liquid off every syllable, "could you two behave like grown-ups?"

"We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants," John told him with a nod towards Sherlock, who wasn't looking at his brother. "So I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

_Mycroft, seriously. Have you met us?_

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged four sentences and quite probably a myriad of other things that went right over John's head. Mycroft's next words, and the accompanying non-verbal communication, however, were easily understood.

"We are at Buckingham Palace." His habitual jovial expression looked forced. "This is the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes - _put your trousers on_." Something in Mycroft's expression and tone of voice told John that this was not the first time Mycroft had said those very words and that likely, Sherlock had been a good deal smaller the last time he had said them.

John decided not to get involved. It seemed the wiser course of action. He did agree with Mycroft on principle, but watching Sherlock's prim and proper elder brother squirm was remarkably entertaining, and he figured Mycroft still owed him for that kidnapping.

Learning that the Queen - _the bloody Queen of England! -_ read and apparently enjoyed his blog momentarily distracted him. Mycroft stepping on the tail end of Sherlock's sheet put an end to that, however.

The subsequent exchange was typical... and highly unhelpful. Once again, John could not help but wonder what had happened between the brothers to incite this petty feud unbecoming of the two most intelligent men John had ever met. And finally realizing that no matter what he told himself, he was actually already involved, he stepped in. "Boys, please. Not here." It felt like talking to a pair of green recruits sullenly shuffling over to see him after a drunken fistfight.

The feeling shifted when Mycroft poured tea and condescendingly added "I'll be mother."

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell," Sherlock muttered.

John raised his brows. Both brothers had hinted at the fact that Mycroft had had no small part in raising Sherlock, and given both the age difference and the way he acted around Sherlock, John suspected that there were times when both Sherlock and Mycroft himself saw him as more of a parent than a brother to Sherlock.

Mycroft finally proceeded to inform them about the reason behind their unintended visit to Buckingham Palace, so John pushed the thought aside for the moment.

_Irene Adler. Huh._

Sherlock was not the only one here who had not heard of her before, but then, John did not usually pay much attention to gossip, especially if it did not concern anyone he was personally acquainted with.

"She prefers dominatrix."

Ah. Yes, gossip column alright.

"Dominatrix," Sherlock echoed, looking down at the picture and John briefly wondered if he was trying to read Irene Adler's professional habits out of it.

Mycroft's smile was too smug, it had 'payback time' written all over it. "Don't be alarmed. It has to do with sex." It was a low blow, even for Mycroft. His tone of voice carried reminders of every awkward moment of Sherlock's adolescence his brother had witnessed. Suddenly, John could see Mycroft telling Sherlock about the birds and the bees and he winced inwardly. Getting _The Talk_ from Harry had been bad enough, but imagine getting it from Mycroft...!

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock said, looking up.

John looked at one, then at the other. Something else was passing between the two of them, something other than Mycroft trying to humble Sherlock by reminding him of all the things he knew and remembered and could bring up at any given, inopportune moment.

Mycroft breathed a humourless laugh. "How do you know?" he asked silkily.

 _Ouch._  

Sherlock's expression froze into an impassive mask.

Mycroft thankfully left it at that and proceeded to outline the problems Ms. Adler was causing. He also told Sherlock who the victim of her current blackmail scheme was, but in such a circumspect way that no one would be able to pin it on him later. Both brothers had perfected the art of creating an unspoken subtext unintelligible to anyone but them when they conversed.

It was quite fascinating.

John's teacup hovered in mid-air, trying to follow and unravel that subtext, but they were too fast and too well-versed in the art of hiding between the lines.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft Holmes did not usually hate people. It was a waste of energy, and most people were simply too dull or insignificant - or both - to incite deep personal feelings. Ms. Irene Adler would likely have been delighted to hear that she was the noteworthy exception.

Mycroft did hate her. With a passion.

In fact, if he could have done so without losing too many feathers, he would have arranged for her to quietly disappear to a dark, forgotten place, and he would have personally thrown away the keys to said place ensuring that she would never return. But the blasted creature was smart, and she had taken precautions.

So he waited.

And waited.

Autumn turned into winter. Snow began to fall, covering even the ugly sides of London in pristine white. To Mycroft's all-seeing eye, they stayed ugly. And the foul taste that had been in his mouth since the first meeting of his brother and Irene Adler remained.

He remembered the morning after that meeting. He had stopped by at Baker Street, uninvited as ever, and caught its residents at breakfast. He listened to Sherlock explain why - in his opinion - Irene Adler did not pose a threat to national security.

_As if he cared._

_Care. Oh._ He caught Sherlock's hesitant pause before the word 'protection' and his frown deepened.

_She got to him, then. Damn that woman._

And that alert noise...! Mycroft clenched his teeth. Adler's audacity was irritating, yes, but he could deal with her. All annoyances, all threats could be dealt with given time and the proper means. The fact that she had apparently taken to toying with _his brother_ changed things. It added a personal note to the matter. She was no longer simply irritating, she had graduated to being a problem.

"It is odd that she upsets you so much," his PA stated, putting tea and biscuits down in front of him.

"Did I not tell you to stay out of this?" Mycroft asked, not bothering to look up from the papers on his desk.

"You did," she conceded. "But since it affects my work if you are in a foul mood, I believe my interest is somewhat justified."

Mycroft's fingers clenched around a pen. "Very well, then," he said with forced calm. "She is a distraction. A most unwelcome distraction."

"To you?" _Isabelle_ asked. "She's not even your type. Never mind the fact that you are still pining for Anne."

Mycroft dropped the pen. "I am _not_..." he began.

 _Isabelle_ sent him a long look.

Mycroft shut his mouth.

"In any case, I do not see why a high class whore, even if she is a whore with ambitions, would upset you so much. It is not like we haven't seen her kind before, after all."

"My brother," Mycroft said softly. _Who, for some reason I am incapable of comprehending, has developed a strange fascination with that woman._

"Ah." Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Trespassing, is she? Most annoying. However, I do not see how she could do much damage there. Sherlock is not sexually attracted to women, is he?"

"Nor to anyone else, no, and that is part of the problem."

"How so?" She stole one of his biscuits and nibbled on the edge.

Mycroft sighed. "How do I explain this? Well... imagine - is there anything, anything at all that you strongly dislike? The very idea of which upsets you? Disgusts you?"

"Oysters?" she suggested.

He shook his head. "Not a good metaphor. Pick something else."

"Okay. Child pornography."

"Good. Now imagine, somebody forces you to watch a video in which children were being sexually abused. The person then proceeds to make fun of your appalled reaction and sends you offending text messages, maybe with pictures of naked children attached to them. How do you feel?"

"Upset? Disgusted? Repulsed?" She guessed. "What does this have to do with your brother and Ms. Adler?"

"Ms. Adler sells sex. Well, sexual services, anyway. My brother is [asexual](http://www.asexuality.org/?q=overview.html), and he not only doesn't feel sexual attraction to anyone, he actually feels repulsed by sex and sexual acts, at least when they relate to him. He is well able to discuss sex in an academic context, but Ms. Adler's interest is far from academic. She appeared to their first meeting naked, and while that probably wouldn't have bothered Sherlock much if they had been alone in the room and having a talk about the weather, she did so in front of John. And we both know that John, as opposed to Sherlock, is sexually attracted to women. Hence, the situation quickly got uncomfortable, and she made it worse by teasing Sherlock. She also mentioned that John loved Sherlock. Probably an accurate assumption, he does seem to care very much for my brother, even though he would violently resent the use of the word 'love' in that context. Now imagine a naked Irene Adler, in a room with John, who clearly finds her presence... stimulating, doesn't know where to look and is embarrassed by her claim that he loves Sherlock, and Sherlock, who is disgusted by the idea of people - and particularly people close to him - having sex."

"That would be incredibly awkward."

"Indeed." Mycroft took a sip of tea. "And the texts. She keeps sending him text messages. John mentioned this. He is concerned, I suppose. Maybe a even a little bit jealous? It has been useful, so far."

"So Dr. Watson has a thing for Irene Adler and is jealous because she likes Sherlock better?" She reached for another biscuit. Mycroft pulled the plate away, and she raised an eyebrow. "Sharing is good for your figure."

"Never mind. No, I don't think Dr. Watson is particularly interested in Ms. Adler. She is certainly an attractive woman, but I don't think he likes her style. His jealousy is towards her, because Sherlock seems to be taking an interest and is acting in a way that John could only perceive as odd, because he is not familiar with my brother's... issues."

_How do you describe a fascination, an attraction, that does not touch upon the sexual or romantic combined with repulsion for who she is, what she does...? How do you describe that to a man who likely struggled even to accept that his sister is attracted to women? An ordinary man, not given to deep  reflection or insights? John Watson is a tolerant man, but tolerance does not equal understanding._

"Dr. Watson has repeatedly stated that he is not gay, and all evidence so far suggests he is telling the truth," _Isabelle_ said. She reached for the plate and managed to snag a biscuit this time. Mycroft let her have it.

"The fact that he is heterosexual - if that is indeed what he is - does not necessarily mean that he could not develop an attraction towards my brother. For one, not all attraction is sexual in nature. Also, he is unusually attached to Sherlock, and my brother is certainly not an easy person to like, much less to live with. Needless to say, I am a great fan of their relationship such as it is now, because I believe Sherlock may benefit greatly from it. I do not want it to change because of Irene Adler. Quite frankly, the woman is in the way, and I don't like it."

"Get rid of her, then." _Isabelle_ shrugged.

"Very funny." Mycroft frowned. "As if I had not considered all possible options. But no, as long as she has the camera phone - and God knows what else she has and on whom - she has a certain amount of leverage. She also has... _friends._ "

"Customers," his assistant corrected.

"Maybe so, but some of them appear to be quite infatuated with her. In any case, the sad truth is that I cannot let Irene Adler quietly disappear at this time. We seem to be at an impasse. For now."

He sighed, and looking up added drily: "And you ate all my biscuits. Again."

 _Isabelle_ smirked. "I am merely looking out for you, sir."

"Oh, I'm _sure_."

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft wasn't sentimental about Christmas, but nevertheless, it was not his idea of enjoyment to spend it at the morgue, looking for the corpse of Irene Adler. Sherlock's call had taken him by surprise and for a moment - a brief, weak, thoughtless moment - he had allowed himself to hope that there might not be an ulterior motive for that called, that it might just be Sherlock calling his elder brother because it was Christmas... but of course it wasn't.

He covered his embarrassment with his habitual condescending haughtiness, but Sherlock had not spoken two full sentences before Mycroft realized that something was off and worry crept up on him from its shallow resting place.

_There is only one law, after all._

_Sherlock...? What did she do to you, that woman?_

He stood at the window, staring outside. Snow was falling in thick, wet flakes.

_Why now...?_

He followed Sherlock, two tall men briskly walking down the long hallways of the hospital. They had left everybody else  behind, even John, who for a moment looked mutinous and worried enough to take on both brothers at once and follow Sherlock wherever he was going.

 _Don't_. Mycroft told him with a firm look and a shake of his head.

The girlish little pathologist was already waiting for them, the one who had such a horrible, helpless crush on Sherlock that Mycroft actually pitied her. He had to hand it to his brother, for all his lack in social skills, he had shown surprising foresight in stringing along a woman in a position of interest, never giving her much hope, but keeping her hopeful enough to be able to easily manipulate her into helping him when necessary.

The fact that Sherlock identified Irene Adler by looking at, as Molly Hooper so delicately put it, 'not her face' was more than a bit awkward, but Mycroft had no time to spare for her and her hurt feelings. Not while there were his brother's feelings to be considered.

He found Sherlock in the hallway, staring blankly at the door at its end. Before his inner eye, Mycroft could see John bouncing up and down with anxiety back in Baker Street.

_He cares. A lot._

John was not the only one who felt anxious here, though, and anxiety made Mycroft fall back into old roles and patterns. In this case, the indulgent older brother/father figure.

"Just the one," he told Sherlock, holding up the cigarette.

"Why?" It was refreshing to see that Sherlock couldn't escape the dynamics of their complicated relationship, either, he fell right back into the role of the stubbornly inquisitive little boy.

"Merry Christmas." Mycroft smiled at the back of Sherlock's head, softly, sadly, and he felt a sharp pang of regret. _I miss that little boy. Sometimes I miss him so much. When did I lose you, brother mine? When did you slip from my hands, tiny little fish that you were, and swim out into the deep dark ocean where the sharks and other evils lurk?_

Sherlock told him about the phone, but deflected when he asked for its whereabouts.

"Look at them," he said, turning. "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there is something wrong with us?"

 _We are, and always will be, special._ Snippets from other, half-remembered conversations. _We are different. Different is not wrong. We are... more. And maybe less, in a way._

"All lives end. All hearts are broken."

_As you broke mine, when you turned away from me, my brother, my only..._

"Caring is not an advantage." _Because it hurts too much, and I do never, ever want you to experience what I have, again and again. Father, you, Sherlock... Anne...better never to experience love firsthand than to have it taken from you by forces beyond your control._

"Sherlock..."

But he turned away.

_This, this is why I do not want you to love. Love is the knife, thrust at you again and again. Pain and loss and suffering. You are better off without it._

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

Mycroft hated Christmas. Other people spent Christmas with their family and loved ones, while Mycroft watched over Britain and the Commonwealth. It was little consolation that it was his watch and that of others like him keeping them safe and oblivious. "And a happy New Year."

Sherlock walked away from him, and Mycroft did what he always did, what he did best - he went behind his brother's back to protect him.

John was worried, and worry made him cooperative. "He's on his way, have you found anything?"

"No. Did he take the cigarette?" It was not what he was asking, not really, and they both knew.

"Yes," Mycroft said slowly.

_Oh Sherlock... here's to another heart you'll break. And I will stand by and let you do it... more, even, I will lend you a hand, because I am foolishly hoping that John Watson might be different. That he might be the One._

"You have to stay with him, John." _And not just tonight. Stay with him. Make him see, make him feel. Make him whole._

 

* * *

 

 

John watched Irene Adler, deadly, morbidly beautiful in her dark outfit, walk towards him and cursed himself.

_Stupid, just stupid. Why would Mycroft even need more than one gorgeous assistant? He's a bloody cold fish._

"Tell him you're alive." Softly spoken, yes, but not a suggestion. A request. Almost a plea.

_Tell him... anything. Just stop hurting him._

"He'll come after me."

"I'll come after you if you don't." _Bitch. You enjoy toying with him, don't you?_

"I need your help."

_No way. No fucking way. You ask me for help? **Me?** _

"It's for his own safety."

_Like hell._

"So's this. Tell him you're alive."

"I can't."

"Fine. I'll tell him." There were few things he was less enthusiastic about doing. Eating live insects was one. Shagging Mycroft was another. But he would do it. Anything for Sherlock, anything if it helped to drag him out of his dangerous black mood.

_I want my friend back. You stole him, witch._

"And I still won't help you."

"What do I say?"

That faked helplessness. John clenched his fingers. He was this close from slapping her, and he had never hit a woman before, not even Harry.

"What do you normally say? You've texted him a lot."

She finally read out the texts to him. John listened, astonished and horrified.

"You... flirted... with Sherlock Holmes." His hands longed to wrap around her throat, squeeze all the arrogance and audacity out of her.

And she had the nerve to ask if she was special...!

"Are you jealous?"

"We're not a couple." It was an evasion, but she let it slip.

"Yes you are."

She sent the text. John was still distracted by the couple comment. More than distracted, in fact. His mind stumbling and getting tangled in too many different trains of thoughts, running off in all directions and branching off, he tried to explain it away. "I'm not actually gay."

Irene Adler raised her brows. "Well I am. Look at us both."

And yes, maybe she had a point, at least if she was being truthful, and not playing another one of her games.

_The straight flatmate who cares too much and the gay dominatrix, who does, too. Things are so wrong, so horribly, terribly wrong right now._

And Sherlock had been there to overhear their conversation.

John didn't even know what he felt anymore, except dread.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft put his teacup aside to look at his phone, humming softly atop a stack of reports. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the number on the screen. He never entered names into his contact list, initials at best. He did not need to, Mycroft never forgot a phone number or who it belonged to.

This number, however...

_Oh dear, what now?_

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft greeted the other man. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Oh, come off it, Mycroft." Lestrade was annoyed, but not badly so. "Your idiot brother just threw a man out of a window. Repeatedly, from the looks of it."

Mycroft was aware of the 'break-in' at Baker Street ever since Colin had rushed into his office with the camera footage some twenty-five minutes before, but since Sherlock appeared to be doing fine on his own, he had decided not to intervene... for now. If the Americans ignored the rules of the game - _his_ rules - and decided to rush in mob-handed, Mycroft was more than happy to let them face the consequences on their own.

"Is anybody hurt?" Mycroft asked, because he realized that Lestrade would expect a bit of brotherly concern right about now.

"Were you listening? Sherlock threw a man out of a bloody window!"

"Ah, well, burglary is a risky occupation."

Lestrade huffed something unintelligible and very likely non-complimentary, before adding: "They are all fine. Mrs. Hudson sustained a few bruises and seems a bit shaken up, but John has seen to that."

"Good. Anything else?"

"The 'burglar' is a foreign national, and I'm guessing he's not here on holiday. American. Care to pick him up before the Embassy does?"

"Not particularly, but I suppose I should send someone. Text me once you know what hospital they are taking him to."

"As long as you take him off _my_ hands," Lestrade muttered. "I've already caught myself thinking about letting him have another go out of the window."

Mycroft chuckled. Gregory Lestrade's frank, buff manner and occasionally coarse language were strangely entertaining. There was also a comforting familiarity to listening to him talk and fuss and complain. They had know each other for a long time, after all.

"Be my guest," Mycroft said.

"Not a fan either, I take it...? Sherlock was pissed. Still is, I think. I'm not sure if it is the intrusion into his home that bothers him so much or the fact that they could have hurt someone he cares about. Though it's refreshing to see that he seems to care so much about Mrs. Hudson."

Mycroft privately agreed. The relationship between his brother and the elderly lady had puzzled him at first, until he had taken a closer look and seen in for what it was: In Sherlock's childhood, there had been no aunts or grandmothers, there had in fact been no other relatives but his parents and his brother. Mrs. Hudson filled the void. She was too young to be a grandmother, but she admirably played the role of a kindly elderly aunt.

"He is not incapable of feeling," Mycroft said.

"I know. I'll admit there were times when I thought him awfully cold, devoid of human emotion... there still are. But after watching him with John... well, you know."

"Indeed."

 

* * *

 

 

Irene Adler had not made an appearance in their lives since the beginning of the New Year, and John was grateful for it. She was still there, a shadow lurking at the edge of sight, but most days it was possible to ignore her.

Time passed. Life went on, almost as it had before.

The fear, the anxiety, the teasing lilt of her voice, the confused thoughts and feelings, were pushed away, into the dark corners of his mind, from where they rarely emerged.

John told himself that he was happy with the status quo. In the quiet of his own thoughts, it almost sounded convincing.

Until she returned.

They played the game, she and Sherlock, each of them trying to outwit the other, but Ms. Adler was using dirty tricks.

John knew that the way to Sherlock's mind - if not his heart - was to present him with a puzzle. And apparently, she had seen it, too. She still tried to use her charms and her looks on him, though, and John wondered why. It seemed like overkill, and could she not see that trying to seduce Sherlock Holmes with mundane charms was obviously pointless?

"Impress a girl," she whispered, and now there, that was it. Challenge him. Sherlock's vanity was his greatest flaw. He was incapable of ignoring a challenge. John had often privately lamented that he was an ordinary man, unable of keeping up with Sherlock's steel trap mind.

Sherlock solved the puzzle within seconds, and John's mind went blank, his face slack.

_How in the world does he do that?_

His voice washed over them, citing facts and making connections at an impossible speed - nobody should even be able to speak that fast - and he finally turned towards her triumphantly. "Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing, John's expressed that in every possible variant available to the English language."

It shouldn't have made him feel as good as it did, shouldn't have made his heart flutter uneasily inside his chest. But he would take any victory he could over Irene Adler.

"I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice."

Sherlock looked at her, but his expression suggested that while he was considering the image, it was not particularly appealing to him. He continued to look at Irene, his face unreadable. A mask. No signs of nervousness or arousal, no signs of anger, either. It was just blank. He had caught himself again. Her hold on him, whatever it was, was slipping.

"I've never begged for mercy in my life." A statement of fact.

"Twice," she insisted.

Sherlock, already caught up in another, more interesting puzzle, pushed her out of the way, both literally and figuratively. John tried not to feel too smug about that. This was not the time for petty feuds.

 

* * *

 

 

"Jumbo Jet. Dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me."

Eight words. Devastating, wrecking havoc and destruction like a hydrogen bomb dropped right at the center of London. Worse possibly. This was personal, too.

Mycroft crumbled beneath the weight of his tumbling plans. Everything gone. The complicated, intricate scheme designed to save lives and reputation, to avert a catastrophe - destroyed. All gone. In a single moment, in eight words.

But failure was inacceptable. There was no contingency plan in this case.

He dropped down into the high backed chair, hand over his eyes, like a child, hoping that if he could not see it, the disaster would go away. The humiliation, the loss of face in front of his own people and their allies, was not the issue. He had faced worse in his long career. There were other considerations now.

_Sherlock. Why...?_

Sherlock had only one weakness, his vanity. His emotional detachment made him immune to most other forms of attack. He was capable of getting angry, of feeling fear, of caring for someone, but those emotions did not control him. He would always bounce back.

Mycroft, on the other hand, had a number of small weaknesses, which he cunningly used to appear more human when it suited him. His sweet tooth and resulting weight issues. His snobbish dislike for the amusements of the lower classes. All human. All small, insignificant.

He had one great weakness.

_There is only one law. There is only one thing that matters, only one who must be saved among the huddled masses, the grey and dull millions._

_Only one._

All afternoon, he paced back and forth, always returning to that chair, staring off into the distance. He took off his jacket, got a drink. More pacing. Back to the chair.

Fear gripped him, a cold hand, icy fingers closing around him. He closed his eyes, put his head in his hands.

And all the while: _No, no, no... not him. Not this... I'll sacrifice anything, anyone, but not this. Don't make me do it. Don't make me choose._

_Not him. I cannot._

 

* * *

 

 

An airplane full of corpses.

But the dead had never scared Mycroft, it was the living who did.

"It doesn't fly. It will never fly." Not anymore. "This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb."

_And Jim Moriarty has discovered my one great weakness. My blind spot. My heart._

"We can't fool them now." _Not just the terrorists. The rest of the world. And why did I ever think we could?_

"We've lost everything." _We, yes. We have lost everything. I, however, will fight with everything it takes to keep the one thing that matters. To uphold the law._

"One fragment, of one e-mail. And months and years of planning - finished."

"Your MOD man."

"That's all it takes. One lonely, naive man, desperate to show off." _Stupid, Sherlock, how could you be so stupid?_ "And a woman clever enough to make him feel special."

Sherlock tried to deflect, but Mycroft interrupted him, raising his voice. "I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock, I'm talking about you." _How could you do this to me, brother?_

He tried to explain, and in mid-explanation realized that while to him this was textbook, _this_ , this was the problem. The divide between Sherlock and him. Between Sherlock and the rest of the world. He would not, could not understand.

"Don't be absurd." And, between the lines, exasperation. Mycroft, you of all people should know...

"Absurd. How quickly did you decipher that e-mail for her? Was it the full minute? Or were you really eager to impress?" An image was pushed to the front of his mind, a memory. Two children, a sheet of papers on a desk, pencils and numbers and letters, quickly scribbled on paper. Father's voice. 'Time's up, who can tell me...' And Sherlock, jumping out of his chair with eagerness, with excitement. 'Father, I got it! I cracked the code...'

Irene Adler's odious voice roused him from the memory. "I think it was less than five seconds."

Time to confess, then. "I drove you into her path." _I should have known better. Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..._ "I'm sorry. I didn't know _." I though your lack of desire would protect you, but it didn't._

_I got us into this mess. I will get us out of it._

Negotiating with Irene Adler was boring, because they both knew exactly how this was going to end - with Mycroft giving her everything she asked for, because he had no choice. And she knew it. He knew it. Sherlock knew it. Still, they kept up the act.

And of course, she just had to mention Moriarty. Mycroft imagined he had specifically asked for it, pompous ass that he was.

"Do you know what he calls you? The Ice Man."

Mycroft almost snorted. _I've been called worse, far worse._

"... And the Virgin." A low blow. So he had told her where to hit, too, or maybe she had figured it out for herself in the months of her acquaintance with Sherlock.

Mycroft was about to wrap things up, when Sherlock's quiet "no" interrupted him.

"Sorry?"

"I said no. Very, very close, but no. You got carried away."

Mycroft watched him intently. _What...? Oh. Oh. So I was not mistaken, after all...? She miscast her net? She tried to trap you, but it slid off?_

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

"Sentiment? What are you talking about?"

"You."

"Oh, dear God. Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?" _No._ Mycroft felt his chest open with relief and swell with pride for his brother at the same time. _No. Because he is Sherlock Holmes, and beyond your petty little games._

"I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very distractive."

 _Why bring John into this, now?_ Mycroft wondered. _To gloat...? Because she tormented him, too?_

_Or maybe... to let her know that she was right about one thing, after all...?_

"I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof."

 _Yes!_ Mycroft had to almost physically stop himself from cheering his little brother. _This is it, then. And so she falls. He did it._

Sherlock handed him the phone. "There you are, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight."

Mycroft took it. "I'm certain they will." _The fact that you've come out of this alive and seemingly unscathed makes up for anything. I'd have given her everything, anything, to save you. And we both know it._

"If you're feeling kind lock her up, otherwise let her go, I doubt she'll survive long without her protection." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

And then he made her beg, and the sound of it was sweet in Mycroft's ears.

_Oh, this is brilliant. The schemer, the seductress, the dominatrix, begging for mercy... begging the only one she could never have but still wants more than any other, to spare her life. There is a higher power, after all._

He was feeling more than a bit vindictive now.

"Sorry about dinner," Sherlock said and slipped out of the room, leaving Mycroft to do what he had wanted to do from the start - deal with Irene Adler in a befitting, permanent way.

 

* * *

 

 

It was easily arranged. In fact, he did not even have much arranging to do. Hand her her passport and give her 24 hours to leave the country, then wait and see. She only took two. Left, ran. Though never far enough. Death found her, finally, in Karachi, a quick death, maybe even a merciful one.

And if the last thing she saw before a flash of metal took away all of her hopes, her dreams, her fantasies, was a fantasy of his brother, coming to her rescue - well, Mycroft could not begrudge her that. Love did strange things to people, and a dying woman should be granted one last dream.

Mycroft watched the video, several times, and he had it analyzed, too. He found out two things: 1. It was genuine, and 2. She died with a smile on her face. What more could anyone ask for, really?

There was one more thing to do.

A man in a dark coat, holding a black umbrella. Standing in front of a cafe, smoking.

John Watson had that distinctive wet dog look about him as he approached. Mycroft caught himself thinking that it was oddly cute in a slightly disturbing way. (Because he was not attracted to John, and because John was a man who shot to kill, with no moral qualms about it later.)

He told John about Irene Adler. First the lie, then the truth.

"He will never see her again."

"Why would he care? He despised her at the end. Won't even mention her by name. Just 'the woman'"

 _Oh, try not to sound so smug, John, will you?_ Mycroft hid a smile.

He decided that this was as good a time as any to push a little further. To see if he could get John to admit that he... well, what? Cared for Sherlock? Loved him? Maybe so.

"Is that loathing? Or a salute? One of a kind, the one woman who matters."

John looked uncomfortable, and his next statement told Mycroft that he had at least gained one insight from this whole sad story. "He's not like that. He doesn't feel things that way... I don't think."

_Oh, very good John. So now you know. Question is, what will you do with that knowledge?_

"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"

_Well...?_

"I don't know." But from the look on his face, it didn't seem to bother him, and Mycroft felt glad at that.

"Neither do I. But initially, he wanted to be a pirate."

_Sherlock, aged five, having climbed into the apple tree in their garden. "Look, Mycroft, this is the sea and here is our ship!"_

Then he told John the truth. And left the decision with him.

It was a test. _A friend would tell him the truth. Especially a man who is a truthful and straightforward as John Watson. But a very good friend, or a lover...? Maybe he would try to spare his feelings..._

He lied.


End file.
